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Sherlock had left to go make an evening pot of tea and had not returned. John was about to speak up and ask if he needed any help or had the head in the fridge gotten him when there was a small shattering sound from the kitchen followed by a soft curse and a shuddering breath. John stayed where he was sitting for a few moments more, expecting Sherlock to call him in and ask him to get a broom or something. He doubted the consulting detective even knew where the broom was kept. Surely, if he put his mind to it, he could deduce something like that as easily as he could figure out who had killed the faceless man in the morgue, but why would he waste his superior intellect on something so boring?

But after a few minutes of waiting for a yell or him to enter the room or something, John decided to go into the kitchen himself. He was expecting to see Sherlock drinking tea from another unharmed cup while standing nonchalantly to the side of the broken one, waiting for John to come in and clean the mess he'd made, but what he saw was something completely different.

Instead of standing next to the pile of glass, Sherlock was sitting in it. The teakettle was abandoned on the stove, not even setting entirely on the blazing burner. Sherlock's jaw was tense and John could tell his teeth were clenched almost tight enough to be damaging. The slender man was curled in on himself at an impossible angle, knees tucked up against his chin. He was staring straight ahead of him and methodically grinding the heels of his palms into the broken shards of the tea cup on the floor. John was on the floor in front of him in seconds, but Sherlock did not take notice. He continued to stare fixedly at a spot just above John's head.

"Sherlock, what happened?"

No answer. John wasn't really expecting one, to be honest.

"All right," he said, more to himself than anything. John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's forearms in a light grasp. Sherlock yelped and wrenched his arms away from the doctor. His mouth hung open, but John could tell that he was only breathing harshly through his nose.

"Don't," Sherlock hissed.

John held his hands up in a calming gesture and rocked back on his heels to put some space between them. It was clear that Sherlock didn't want to be touched right now. John watched helplessly as his friend trembled and shook. He was struggling to breathe normally, his breath coming in strangled shallow gaps. John recognized Sherlock was in danger of hyperventilating and doing actual damage to himself if he didn't allow him to help and get bleeding of his hands stopped.

"Sherlock," he said softly, calmly. "What can I do?"

The detective didn't respond. He just continued to stare at something John couldn't see. John could feel himself growing more and more frustrated but forced himself to remain calm. Yelling wouldn't solve anything, wouldn't help Sherlock come out of… whatever fit this was.

He didn't know what on earth could have set him off like this. They'd been having a good evening. Nothing had happened that might have indicated that tonight was going to be one of his "danger nights," as Mycroft had once referred to them. Sherlock liked to think that he could hide the signs from him, but John had picked up on them in the year or so that they'd been living together. He would have had to have been truly inept not to notice the distinct changes in Sherlock's mannerisms. On those days he'd be quieter than normal, agitated, and more irascible than ever. He tended to mope around the flat, could never seem to sit still, and on the worst occasions his hands would tremble so violently that he couldn't even play his violin properly. But those things John knew how to deal with. He knew that a good cup of tea and a mindless movie on the telly or a game of Cluedo would usually be able to distract him, to bring him back to the reality of their daily life, to remind him that things weren't as bad as Sherlock made them out to be in his head.

But this… this situation that John saw before him was nothing like he'd seen before, not from Sherlock, and the fact that he didn't know what to do frightened him more than anything.

"Sherlock," John tried again, "Please, Sherlock. I can't help you unless you tell me what's wrong. Tell me how to help you."

Sherlock remained staring straight ahead, his body trembling with all of the tension it held, but whispered between gritted teeth,

"Get Mycroft."

"What?" John leaned closer, not sure he'd heard correctly.

"Get. Mycroft," Sherlock repeated. "Please."

"Okay… Okay, all right," John slowly got to his feet, careful to avoid the broken pieces of teacup. "Whatever you need. I just have to go get the phone. Okay? Sherlock? I'll be right back."

Sherlock was vaguely aware of John's voice as he stood and left the room, searching for a mobile. Why he'd asked John to call his brother he wasn't sure. Out of everything he could have said, everything he could have asked for, why ask for Mycroft? He hadn't needed his brother's help in years and, truthfully, he was hesitant to ask for it. He didn't want to feel any more like a child than he already did, so why in the bloody hell had he asked John to get him!? It didn't make any sense, but right now – he wasn't making any sense.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cool wood of the cupboard he'd collapsed against. He tried to focus on his breathing, the in and out, the inhale and exhale, but it didn't help. If anything, it made him feel even worse, because right now he couldn't control anything, not even his own breathing. He hadn't been this out of control in a long time and he hated his body for betraying him like this.

There wasn't even a logical reason for him to be feeling this way. He'd been in the kitchen making tea, just like he did almost every night. Nothing unusual there. Yet the familiarity of it all had struck him. As he'd stood there, setting the kettle on the stove, pulling out the cups and creamer and sugar bowl, he'd wondered if this was what he was destined for – a life of making tea for himself and John. Not that he disliked making tea, but it was just so dull. It was boring, routine, tedious.

He'd suddenly found his brain spinning out of control, wondering what would happen if this normal domestic existence were to be it, all he would do for the rest of forever. He'd been so afraid of how boring that would be, how he'd have nothing to distract himself with. If a day came when he had no cases to keep him busy, no drugs to clear his mind, nothing to keep his brain from ramping into overdrive, what would he do? There would be nothing for him. Nothing. Nothing but boredom and monotony of a day-in, day-out routine. Of course, there was always John, but what if a day came when John wouldn't be enough? What if John couldn't distract him forever, keep the wild and dangerous thoughts away?

It had been enough to send him into a panic. He'd dropped the teacup and slumped to the floor. He'd been unable to move, unable to call for help, for John. His body had seized up and insisted on shutting down. Even when John had come to him, he hadn't been able to say what was wrong. After all, how could he? John understood him better than most – better than anyone, actually – but this… this was so stupid, so illogical that he couldn't expect John to understand. It had been such a small, insignificant thing that had set him off, something that wouldn't terrify ordinary people…

And for one moment, as he remained sitting stock-still on the chilly linoleum floor of the kitchen in their flat, Sherlock Holmes wished he could be normal, just for bit, just to try it, just long enough to figure out how to stop his brain from racing out of control, to stop thinking so damn much, to slow down and just be ordinary for Christ's sake!

Yet even as he thought it and railed against himself on the inside, his traitorous body wouldn't allow him to do anything more than press the heels of his hands more firmly into the floor and the sharp shards of ceramic. He didn't welcome the pain, but it helped him focus on a single, concrete thing rather than the infinite possibilities swirling around in his mind.

Sherlock hated himself then. For all his cleverness and deduction and genius, he couldn't figure out a way to help himself. They were right. They'd all been right. He was worthless. A freak. Pathetic, really.

John fumbled through the mess on the table, trying to find Sherlock's mobile. He assumed the other man did not have it on him, and also assumed he had his brother's number because John surely did not. That man always called him on restricted; there was no way to get a hold of him if he needed to.

And now he really needed to.

He heard Sherlock take in a loud shaky breath from the kitchen.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" he called, not really expecting an answer, but hoping the gesture was calming nonetheless. He located the mobile he was searching for and scooped it up, all but sprinting back to the kitchen.

His flatmate was much how he had left him, curled up in an awkward ball on the floor of the kitchen, still incessantly twisting his wrists into the pointy shards still there. John wanted to make him stop; the noise was setting his teeth on edge. He longed to reach out and wipe away the drops of blood that were now dribbling down his arms and sticking out starkly against his pale skin.

"Sherlock?" John tried again, still to no avail. "I have your mobile, Sherlock. Do you still want me to call Mycroft?"

Sherlock just nodded, unable to formulate the word, not trusting his voice again. A defiant tear fell from the outside corner of his left eye and Sherlock bit his lip, closing his eyes tightly and only causing more tears to escape. John watched his shoulders shudder and tremble as he thumbed through the contacts on Sherlock's phone, trying to find his brother. It was easier than he expected. Sherlock did not have very many numbers in his phone. While scrolling, he'd found Mrs. Hudson's number, his own, Lestrade's, and his brother's. As the phone dialed, John mused this was probably because he could either remember or figure out everyone else's.

The line rang twice and he was interrupted from his thoughts by a distinctly female voice asking if she could help him.

"Um, yes, hello. Mycroft Holmes, please."

"I'm sorry, he isn't available right now."

"Can you get him a message?"

"Mr. Holmes isn't taking any messages at this time," she told him pleasantly.

"No, this is an emergency. I need you to get him."

"What kind of emergency, sir?" she asked, not sounding interested in the least or like his explanation would be likely to change her mind.

"His brother needs him and I need you to put me through to him right now," John's authoritative military voice resurfaced for a moment.

After a short pause, the woman replied, "All right. I'll transfer your call."

John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and looked over at Sherlock. He was deathly pale and trembling so hard it almost looked painful. John wished the call would just transfer already. He needed to get to Mycroft. Now. Or Sherlock was going to do serious damage to his insides. John could tell he wasn't getting enough oxygen. He tapped his finger against the back of the mobile impatiently, wondering what was taking so long.

"Come on, come on," he mumbled into the phone as he watched Sherlock struggling to breathe and removing his hands from the floor to bury them in his hair and tug, smearing blood across his brow.

A man with a clipped voice answered the phone this time. "Hello, may I help you?"

"Yes, I need to speak to Mycroft Holmes right away. It's urgent."

"He is in a meeting right now, sir."

"This is more important than the meeting he is in, I assure you. I need to speak with him. Now." John was not in the mood for waiting any more. He needed to get Mycroft in their flat to help Sherlock right this second or he didn't know what he was going to do.

"Please hold a moment."

"I'm only holding if you are putting me directly to Mycroft right now!" John was losing his temper, and quickly. How could these people not understand that this was important? The man didn't say anything but John was sure he heard the feedback of the phone being moved. He heard a door click and a few mumbled voices. John looked over at Sherlock as the man emitted a soft broken moan, now resorting to rocking back and forth and pulling on his hair between the shallow gasps that seemed to be taking all of his effort to muster. John winced himself, wishing this would not take so bloody long.

"John? What is it?"

Mycroft. Finally. John couldn't decide if the man sounded more concerned or annoyed.

"It's Sherlock."

"What's he done?"

"I don't know. He was making tea and I was in the sitting room. I heard him drop his cup and when I came in he was on the floor. I think he's having a panic attack or something," John said quietly. He felt awkward talking about Sherlock like this when he was sitting right in front of him, able to hear every word. "He asked for you. He needs you."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and John felt like something heavy, hot, and sickening had settled in his stomach. Was Mycroft really going to not come? Then what would he do about Sherlock? He didn't seem to be showing any signs of improvement.

"I'll be right over."

The call disconnected.

John heaved a sigh of relief, knowing help was on the way for his flatmate. He knelt down in front of Sherlock again.

"He's on the way, Sherlock. Mycroft is coming, okay? And for now, I'm here. I'm right here. You're going to be just fine."

Sherlock flicked his eyes to John's face in recognition and acknowledgement, but that seemed to be all the reaction he could muster. Not wanting to risk touching him again, John met Sherlock's gaze and tried his best to look reassuring. Sherlock didn't seem to pay the gesture any heed.

"Sherlock. Mycroft's on his way, but you're going to have to try to help yourself a bit here. I know… I can't imagine how hard this is for you, but try to focus on your breathing. In and out," John mimicked a deep inhale and exhale. "Please, Sherlock. Try. For me. In and out. Breathe deep."

Sherlock gave the barest nod and inhaled shakily, trying to heed John's words. John could only imagine how difficult such a seemingly small action could be at this very moment. As a doctor, he knew panic attacks were a legitimate medical condition, and there was often no rhyme or reason to what set one off. He also knew that they could be brought under control by evening out breathing and getting the patient to calm down. But as someone who'd repeatedly woken up to panic seizing his chest, he knew that calming down wasn't just something that could be done on command. It took time and control and an exhausting amount of effort.

"Good, Sherlock. Good," John praised, watching as Sherlock struggled to force his breathing into a new, slower pattern. "Just keep breathing. Keep breathing. You're doing fine. Everything will be all right. We'll make it all right. I promise."

Sherlock was dying inside.

Not literally dying, you moron, he corrected himself. We all die so slowly every day that the exact sensation of our cells expiring and our bodies deteriorating is impossible to pinpoint. Stop exaggerating and get a hold of yourself.

Yet, if he thought about it, he could almost feel his heart getting more and more tired with each beat. He was exhausted. He hadn't experienced a fit like this is years, but the feeling of terror and chaos was just the same as ever. He just wanted this to end. His mind was beginning to tire of its inability to just stop it, but he knew that trying to force himself into a calmed state before he was ready would only start him panicking all over again, in an uncontrollable loop that he was unwilling to enter into. He feared losing his mind that way.

Even as he began to slowly even out his breathing, following the distant sound John's voice, Sherlock gently banged his head back against the door of the cupboard in a steady rhythm. He didn't know why. He wasn't sure how it was helping, but he only that it was. He'd managed to stop trembling, but his fingers were still wound in his hair. It had been a habit he'd started as a child, pulling his own hair, needing to feel the pain, needing to know that his skull, in fact, had not split in two but was still there, holding his brain intact.

"Sherlock…" John said his name softly. He was no doubt concerned about the possible damage to the back of his skull. Sherlock waited for him to continue, but he didn't.

Sherlock felt angry then. He hated this feeling, hated being so weak, hated losing control, hated letting John see him this way, hated worrying John, hated the look on John's face as he sat ever vigilant by his feet, hated how John could look so empty and yet so full of absolute worry.

He was banging his head harder now and faster, his breathing speeding up again. No, no! He didn't want to go down this path again. He didn't want to start all over. He was a grown man, for fuck's sake. He could pull himself together. He just had to focus. To be better. To try harder. To be more normal. To…

"Sherlock."

John's voice, suddenly much louder and clearer, cut through everything else. He was kneeling before him now, his hands wrapped around Sherlock's wrists. Before, Sherlock had refused to be touched, the comfort of John's hands too much for him to focus on. Now, he clung to it, focusing on how his fingers spanned his wrists slick with blood – his own blood – without so much as a second thought.

"Sherlock, please stop. Your head… you have to stop. Can you stop?"

Sherlock took as deep a breath as he could manage. He couldn't just switch these things off. But John. He could try for John. He closed his eyes and tried, tried so hard. John slipped one of his hands behind Sherlock's head, using it as a buffer between his skull and the cabinet, like a parent would to protect his child.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay," John's thumb rubbed against his wrist even as his other hand was being softly pummeled by Sherlock's skull.

The slight gesture gave Sherlock something to focus on.

John. Stop. John's hand. Stop banging. John's voice. Breathing. In. Out. John. Calm. John. Stop. Head. Stop. John. Never leaving. Breathe in. John. Always there. John. Breathe out. John.

John. John. John.

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock stopped the movement of his head, leaving it to rest against John's open palm.

"See? There we are," John said gently. "It's going to be all right, Sherlock. We'll make it all right."

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John looking right at him, a gentle smile on his face. Who was this man, Sherlock suddenly wondered, who was so willing to go through hell with him for nothing, absolutely nothing in return? Inexplicable tears sprung to his eyes again. It wasn't fair. He took and took and took so much from John and yet the man never complained, never retaliated, never said a word. He just waited by his side, foolishly refusing to give up on him. As much as he admired John's capacity for caring, it would undoubtedly be his undoing. Of that Sherlock was sure.

"Sherlock?" John must have noticed the tears. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

The detective blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the tears, and swallowed hard. What could he say that wouldn't sound like sentiment? He hated sentiment. Moreover, what could he say right now, if anything?

Thankfully, he didn't have to decide.

It was then the doorbell rang.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," John shook his head, turning to lead the elder Holmes up to their flat. "It's just like I said. Sherlock was making tea, when all of a sudden, he just stopped. I heard the teacup shatter and found him the way he is now."

The pair of them climbed the stairs, John opening the door to the living room and letting Mycroft inside. He nodded as the younger man explained the situation his brother was going through. Mycroft understood the role he needed to play immediately.

"Where is he?"

"In the kitchen," John answered, pointing over the threshold though he did not need to. Mycroft had already set his dry umbrella on the couch as he sauntered across the room. John followed behind him, standing in the doorway and feeling intrusive.

Mycroft immediately knelt down in front of his brother as he had many times before, ignoring the horrid creases sitting in this position was putting in his freshly laundered suit. Some things are more important than others, and today his brother was at the top of the list. Sherlock's body was still vibrating with panic and tears were quietly coursing down his cheeks in a steady stream.

"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, barely loud enough to hear. "It's Mycroft. I'm here now."

John had never heard this man talk to his brother in such a genuine and reassuring tone.

"Myc…" Sherlock said as he opened his eyes a fraction, his breath still hitching in his chest. "Help." He leaned forward into Mycroft and the older man cradled his younger sibling against his chest.

"Shh, Sherly. You're okay. I'm here now. Things are going to be all right."

Sherlock shook his head against him, his tears beginning to dampen the front of Mycroft's suit jacket. Mycroft pursed his lips. His brother was always the dramatic, always convinced this panic attack was going to be the one to kill him, was going to actually stop his heart. Mycroft felt something deep down akin to pity. He hated seeing his brother like this; trapped within his own body and helpless to escape. It was so different from the usual bouncing-off-the-walls-with-enthusiasm and a highly-likely-to-offend Sherlock. This Sherlock reminded Mycroft of long nights spent huddled on the floor of a bathroom, hallway, bedroom, or even outside once or twice, with his brother shaking and gasping in his arms.

At first, Mycroft had not understood what was wrong. He remembered the first night Sherlock came to him, sweating and clawing at his chest with a terror in his eyes. Mycroft had not known what to do. He had held his brother all night as he cried, and spent the entirety of the next afternoon in a library, researching what had happened and how to help. There were many ways to combat anxiety in this form, but Sherlock, true to character, responded to almost none of them. Mycroft had found one way to calm him down, and he hoped it would still work all these years later.

"Sherlock, I need you to listen to me." Sherlock nodded fractionally. Mycroft ran his hands slowly up and down his brother's back, trying to emulate comfort. "What is the symbol for barium?"

Sherlock tried to open his mouth, but his voice could not form the words. He shook his head roughly against Mycroft's shoulder.

"No, Sherly. I need you to tell me what it is," Mycroft pressed, softly but firmly. "Please tell me."

It was a moment before Sherlock answered. "Ba."

"Good. What is its atomic number?"

Sherlock again took his time before reciting in a small voice, "56."

"Perfect, Sherly. Now take a breath for me." Sherlock did as he was told, and miraculously the air didn't catch between his teeth. "Where is it located on the periodic table?"

Sherlock took another breath before answering. "The fifth element in group two. Alkaline earth metal."

John watched in awe at how skilled Mycroft was at calming his brother down. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding as his own anxiety and concern over Sherlock melted away. He made a mental note about the periodic table and filed it away in case of emergency.

Sherlock was visibly starting to relax, but Mycroft knew they weren't out of the woods just yet. He picked another element and began to drill Sherlock on it. "Tell me about zinc, Sherlock."

"Symbol: Zn. Atomic number 30. First element in group twelve. It is a transition metal." Sherlock sat up but did not move far enough that Mycroft's hands came off his shoulders. He breathed in through his nose and threw his head back, studying the ceiling tiles and blinking rapidly. Roughly, he brought the ball of his hand to his cheek to wipe away stray tears and pulled back hissing, staring at the now dried blood clumped around the smattering of small cuts there. Sherlock sat, both of his hands splayed in front of him, trying to stop more tears from falling while concentrating fully on his breathing.

"You're all right, Sherlock. Everything is okay. You're right here, on the kitchen floor, sitting in cold tea. I am right across from you and John is standing in the doorway. We are at 211b and everything is back to normal," Mycroft recited to Sherlock, who nodded.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said in a tiny voice after taking in the state of Mycroft and his suit. His brother smiled and shook his head.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to apologize? This isn't something in your control."

"Every time. And I know, that's why I hate it so much." Sherlock spoke in a measured tone.

"Are you feeling better now?"

"Mostly," he said, looking pointedly at his arms.

"I'm sure Doctor Watson will be able to patch you right up, Sherly," Mycroft said, chuckling softly at the slight color that rose to Sherlock's cheeks at the use of the nickname. He was definitely making a quick recovery.

Something shifted in Sherlock's eyes. He looked up with something similar to terror in his eyes. His doctor had never seen him act this way. Apprehension laced his words. "John?"

"I'm still here, Sherlock," John stepped forward again. Until this point, he'd hung back a bit, watching Mycroft seemingly work magic as he calmly talked Sherlock out of his panic attack, succeeding where he himself had failed to help.

"I'm sorry, I… this mess and… I…" Sherlock gestured helplessly at the scene surrounding him.

"No, no. Don't apologize," John cut him off, shaking his head. "It's not important. I'm just glad you're better. You did give me a bit of a fright there."

"I didn't… I should have… I acted like such a child," he murmured, still looking distraught.

John crossed to him and put his hand on his shoulder. "Hey. Hey, don't beat yourself up about this. It's fine. It's all fine. Now here," he pulled back and extended his hand. "Let's get you off the floor."

With a nod, Sherlock reached up and clasped John's hand. Careful of his wrists, John pulled him to his feet. Standing, Sherlock wobbled a bit, undoubtedly still a little lightheaded, but John was quick to steady him.

"There we go."

Mycroft glanced between the pair of them. "Well, it seems my work here is done. I'm sure you can manage from here. I'd make sure he gets a hot cup of tea, Doctor Watson, and after a good night's sleep, he should be back to his wonderfully annoying self again."

Despite his brother's lighthearted teasing, Sherlock looked at him seriously. "Thank you."

Mycroft gave a small smile, looking as close to affectionate as John had ever seen him. "Always."

The brothers exchanged a look for a moment, then Mycroft turned and, grabbing his hastily discarded umbrella, moved towards the front door. "I can show myself out. I trust I shall be seeing you before too long, knowing the trouble you two get up to," he added with a smirk. "Good evening, John. Sherlock."

With Mycroft's departure, the silence in the flat was deafening. For a moment, neither of them really knew what to say. The feeling was strange. John couldn't remember feeling this awkward around Sherlock since perhaps the day they'd met. But after what he'd just witnessed… He wasn't sure how to respond. He'd never seen Sherlock like that before and it had frightened him to see the man in such distress. Then to see him with Mycroft, how the brothers interacted… It made John rethink everything that he had previously thought about them and their estranged relationship.

"So…" Sherlock began, drawing John's attention once more.

John cleared his throat. "Right. Why don't you, er, get cleaned up and then I'll see to your wrists? Good?"

Sherlock nodded and headed towards the back of the flat while John made his way to the kitchen to attend to the mess on the floor. The linoleum was covered in broken china and watery tea. John fetched the broom and swept up the shards before kneeling to mop up the tea with a handful of paper towels. As he did so, he noticed several smears of blood on the floor. Suddenly, he looked down to see blood on his own hands, on his jumper too, where he'd wiped his hands before getting up to answer the door. Until this moment, he hadn't even noticed the blood, now drying a rusty crimson. Sherlock's blood. On him.

Feeling more than a little sick, John went to the sink and turned the taps on all the way, scrubbing his hands to get the blood off him. His hands shook slightly as he rinsed them clean and John took a deep breath to calm himself before heading upstairs to his bedroom. He left the bloody jumper in the hamper and pulled on a fresh one before grabbing the first aid kit he kept on the desk in his room. It was better stocked than the one they kept in the kitchen and it would have everything he would need to tend to Sherlock's injuries.

Returning downstairs, he found Sherlock waiting for him in the living room. Dressed in fresh clothes and his familiar blue robe, he was starting to look like himself again. John breathed a silent sigh of relief. He motioned for Sherlock to sit in his chair next to the fireplace and he took his own across from him, reaching for the first aid kit he'd gotten from his bedroom and proceeding to pull out antiseptic and gauze so he could clean Sherlock's wrists.

"This might sting a bit," he explained as he dampened a cloth with the alcohol.

Sherlock flinched a bit when the alcohol touched his wounds, but said nothing, just watched as John carefully cleaned the cuts and wrapped fresh white gauze around his wrists. All in all, the bandages made his injuries look much worse than they actually were, but John wasn't about to take any chances. Looking at Sherlock's wrists, John found himself wondering what might have happened if Sherlock had cut himself any deeper. If he had nicked a vein or artery. If Mycroft had been truly unreachable. If Mycroft had refused to come. If Sherlock would still be sitting there in the kitchen like that, with blood and tea and tears on his face and…

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"What?"

Shocked to realize he'd spoken aloud, John repeated himself, only fractionally louder. "I said I'm sorry."

Sherlock frowned. "Whatever for? You have nothing to apologize about."

"Sorry that I couldn't help you… earlier," John mumbled, keeping his eyes downcast. "I couldn't be there for you when you needed me."

"Don't be ridiculous. You were here the whole time. You called Mycroft and…"

"That's just it!" John snapped. "I had to call Mycroft. I couldn't help you. I couldn't make you better. I wasn't enough to help you when you needed it most. God…" John stood up abruptly, crossing the room and bracing his hands on the back of his chair. "Do you know what it was like to see you there, like that? To see you in pain and hurting and not be able to do a damn thing to stop it!"

"John…"

"No! I'm a doctor. It's my job to fix people, to fix you. And I can't… I couldn't… You're… you're my… you… I… I couldn't even help you."

John rested his elbows on the back of the chair and covered his face with his hands. He breathed slowly, taking several deep breaths, before dragging his hands back over his face. When he opened his eyes again, after gathering himself, Sherlock was just looking at him, his expression blank.

"Say something. Please," John whispered.

"You still don't have to be sorry."

John blinked at him in confusion.

"You… you did the best you could. I…" Sherlock struggled with the words. "I don't often have… attacks like I did tonight and this – this was beyond me, beyond you. But you knew what I needed. You brought Mycroft here, which is no easy task."

John laughed, the sound escaping him like a scoff or a snort.

"And never left," Sherlock said gravely, meeting John's gaze once more. "You stayed with me throughout this which is… It's more than I can say… about anyone else. Ever. So… thank you."

They stayed silent for a moment, neither speaking, the silence companionable despite the gravity of the conversation.

"Just…" John spoke again. "Just promise me one thing, Sherlock."

"Anything."

"Next time, don't shut me out. Let me know when something is bothering you. Let me help you. That's what friends do."

"I… I will," the detective promised.

"Oh, and one more thing," John added.

"Yes?"

"Next time you feel like smashing teacups, make sure it's one of your own, not one of mine."

Sherlock smiled, a true grin spreading across his face. "Done."

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